


(7. Enchanted) / It's a cup of magic

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Magic tea, That's it, also of course Crowley doubting himself and being a mess, that's the entire premise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 14:18:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20949731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, basically using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 7 - EnchantedThis is ridiculous. He stood up to put the kettle on. As if drinking some tea would have any effect like this. He took out the the angel-wing mug. As if a human was able to create something that would have any influence over an ethereal being. He stared at the paper bag now sitting on the counter. As if he was going to try to enchant the angel with something as ridiculous as a cup of tea. He dropped 'Receiving Gifts' into the cup.





	(7. Enchanted) / It's a cup of magic

**Author's Note:**

> A completely different thing this time, because this is only Chapter 1 of a full fic now! I liked the idea so much I decided to run far, far away with it.

Crowley stared at the bag hidden inside a cupboard of Aziraphale's kitchen that he knew the angel never opened. (Why he had it then, he wasn't quite sure, but it had been a good place to hide everything from surprise baked goods to secretly stolen wine. Maybe it was his sheer stubborn belief that Aziraphale would never find it there that made sure he actually didn't.)

What was hidden inside the bag itself was a moral dilemma. Crowley was not a big fan of those. He usually left them for the humans to hem and haw over. Demon's didn't have morals, so there was nothing to have a dilemma about.

Except.

Except when it came to certain angels and certain relationships-that-weren't-really-relationships but might have a chance to become actual relationships if either of them had ever dared to talk about possible relationships.

As it stood, this was a moral dilemma for Crowley himself to work out.

And all because of that dam-bles- that _witch_.

-*-

They'd spent an almost agreeable afternoon tea with her and her boyfriend who'd only said something incredibly rude once, or maybe twice, without realising until Anathema had kicked him under the table hard enough. (That was always good for a laugh, the humans thinking they'd somehow insulted the two of them. As if either of them cared. Well, Aziraphale maybe, all puffing up and fiddling with his buttons. Crowley was, of course, too cool to care.)

They'd had tea and biscuits and some very sweet, very sticky little cakes Anathema had made after her great-grandmother's recipe and Aziraphale had practically swooned over. They'd made chit-chat, or at least Aziraphale and Newt had, while Anathema and he had dived down their on-going discussion about conspiracy theories. (This would've made round 15 of this particular debate, and neither would admit they liked it. They absolutely did. Aziraphale had caught Crowley re-searching the newest arguments for and against certain conspiracies prior to the last two times they'd met up.)

And then, for reasons beyond Crowley's understanding, Anathema had asked _him_ to help with clearing the table. Usually it was Aziraphale almost falling over his own feet trying to get up and help, only to be put back into his seat with a stern smile of the witch and her assurance that she and Newt would manage just fine. (They never did, though, as Newt would end up dropping at least one of the cups or plates. He was lucky their pottery was already a random mix of donation store and flea-market finds.)

He'd gotten up, begrudgingly (but surprisingly fast, Aziraphale noted – it usually took far longer to convince Crowley to do some kind of _help, _unless you were a particular angel in trouble of course), and trotted into the kitchen with a full tray, Anathema and the plate of biscuits (minus two, which Newt and Aziraphale had quickly nabbed) behind him.

“Thank you.” She smiled in that mysterious, annoying way she had while putting the dishes into the sink.

“Don't thank me.” Crowley shuddered. “Tell me what you want instead.”

“What I want?”  
“You clearly had a reason for getting me alone. What do you want?”

Anathema sighed. “Do you always assume the worst?”

“Demon. Job description.” Crowley waved the now empty tray around, miraculously not hitting any of the shelves in the tiny kitchen.

“Yes. Alright. Makes sense.” Another sigh. “I only wanted you away from Aziraphale because I have something for you, and I know he'll be so delighted he'll rip it out of your hands before you even get to look at it. And that kind of defeats the point.”

Crowley watched her rummage through a cupboard, followed by a few whispered swears (there was a reason she was one of the few humans he might someday admit he enjoyed the company of), until she pulled out a little paper bag and held it up. They exchanged a pointed look between each other.

“Oh god, stop acting as if it's going to bite your hand off. It's a _gift_. Just take it.”

“Why would you get me a gift?” He took the bag, though, peering inside for just a second. It contained more small bags. Rather suspicious.

“It's nothing special, don't worry, I didn't _think_ of you or showed you any kind of nicety with this, I know how much you pretend to hate that.” (Anathema's mocking smile was another point for the list of 'things I might actually like about this human'.) “I've started experimenting with tea-blends for spells, and I figured you had a better use for this set than I do.”

“Tea for spells? What am I supposed to do with that? I'm a demon, not a witch. I don't do spells.” He sniffed into the bag for a second, hit with a wave of all sorts of spices, herbs and tea. He counted six little bags, exactly enough for a pot of tea each.

“You _drink_ them, you doofus.” (Daring enough to call him that without flinching at his evil glare that followed? Another point for the list.) “Or rather, you have someone drink them.” A pointed eye-roll into the direction of the living room, where Aziraphale was still chatting away as Newt only nodded and 'mhm'ed from time to time.

Another moment of shared looks, another sigh. “Crowley, for all I care, throw them in the bin as soon as you get home. Or not. Maybe just give them a try, and see if you like the results, is all I'm saying.”

-*-

And that was that. And now he was standing in Aziraphale's kitchen, having offered to make the tea this time, for reason beyond his understanding. Or maybe not completely beyond, but for a reason he did not want to actually admit. Thus, the moral dilemma had been born.

He could make some normal tea. He knew where the bags of Earl Grey were, or the box of loose leaf Darjeeling. He could make some tea, bring it back to Aziraphale, have him drink it while reading, watch him enjoy it from the couch, end of story. Evening spent as usual. No problem at all. No enchanting or magickying or bewitching or whatever you'd call it. No influencing the innocent angel. No pushing on the door to that whole 'relationship' business they'd so neatly packed away without ever mentioning it.

The little bags of tea in the big bag were also very neatly marked. Anathema's handwriting was squiggly and slightly off, and actually made it easier for Crowley to read, (a discover which he pretended to hate for a little while, before being busy hating the descriptions on the tea). He'd read the notes over and over and over again by now, and was glad for a short second that Aziraphale was once again too engrossed in reading to notice how long he'd been gone.

'Receiving Gifts', one bag said. 'Words of Affirmation', the other. 'Quality Time' and 'Acts of Service' had caught his eye at first, but were quickly interrupted by 'Physical Touch'.

At the bottom, slightly smaller and neater tucked away, lay the worst offender.

'Eternal Love'.

_This is ridiculous_. He stood up to put the kettle on. _As if drinking some tea would have any effect like this. _He took out the the angel-wing mug. _As if a human was able to create something that would have any influence over an ethereal being. _He stared at the paper bag now sitting on the counter. _As if he was going to try to enchant the angel with something as ridiculous as a cup of tea. _He dropped 'Receiving Gifts' into the cup.

Steeped and strained, with one spoon of sugar and a splash of milk, the tea found itself softly placed next to the angel, currently deep into a giant tome of something or other he'd found just last week and couldn't tear his eyes from ever since.

He tore them off of it now, though, to look bewildered at the cup, then, somewhat softer, up at the demon who'd placed it. He'd apparently all but forgotten that Crowley had said something about making a cuppa only – oh, fifteen minutes or so ago.

“Figured you might need a drink after breathing in all that bookdust.”

“Oh, dear boy.” Aziraphale curled his fingers around the cup, breathed in the steam coming from it. “That's very thoughtful of you.”

Crowley made a rough noise while staring at- the cup? The angel? Hard to tell. His thoughts were all over the place, yet he was definitely not  _thoughtful_ . Especially not this time. Selfish, more like. 

“Don't go down _that_ route, angel.”

“Sorry. But thank you, still. What tea is this?” Another sniff of the aroma, decidedly not Earl Grey. Something deep, something herby. Utterly lovely.

“Beats me. Something I found in _your_ cupboards. Pour it out if you don't like it.”

Aziraphale gave him an almost scolding look (as if he'd ever pour tea down the drain instead of enjoying it thoroughly) before taking a sip.

“Oh, it's lovely!”

Crowley swallowed down the rising feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Nothing seemed to have happened. Why should something happen anyway? They'd returned to their places, Aziraphale over his book, Crowley on the sofa, trying his very best to hang off of it as nonchalantly as usual, and somewhat failing. Far too focused on watching the angel take sip after sip, until the cup was empty yet again. Waiting. Watching.

For what? Nothing was going to happen. It was  _tea_ . The witch had played a prank on him, or anyway her work was far too simple to have any effect on a non-human, and it's not like he'd actually expected anything to-

Aziraphale got up. Crowley's mind stilled.

“That reminds me!” (What reminded him of what, exactly? Aziraphale's train of thought was impossible to follow, as always.) “I have something for you.”

“You what?” Crowley only managed to stutter, but Aziraphale had already disappeared behind a bookshelf, returning with a small plastic box.

“Here, I found this at the same Antiques' store I found this lovely tome.” Crowley stared – at Aziraphale this time, definitely. He was still holding the box in his direction. “I remember, you said the last one had turned in your car again. I hope I got the right one?”

He wasn't quite sure what exactly he was doing as he took it from his hands. The thing. The box. He should look at the box. Not at Aziraphale. The box.  _Look at it, you doofus_ .

It was a cassette tape of the Velvet Underground. (Crowley wasn't sure if this record had actually ever come out as a cassette tape, but where there was an angelic will, there was apparently a way.) 

“Well?” Aziraphale interrupted the myriad of thoughts racing through Crowley's mind. “Is it the right one?”

“It is.” His voice was surprisingly hoarse, as if he had been screaming. (He had, inwardly. Hopefully only inwardly.) “It absolutely is.”

Aziraphale gave him a smile, one of  _those_ smiles, the ones that made him feel all melty and soft and nice like he shouldn't feel. Especially not now. Especially not the way he had caused it.

“The right kind of Bebop, yes?” He joked, expectantly, and Crowley stifled a laugh, as he was expected to do. He didn't have much of a mind to play their usual game right now. Luckily, Aziraphale didn't seem to expect much more, as he went back to his desk and tome. Crowley went back to staring at the tape.

'Receiving Gifts', he thought. And then his mind raced to the other 5 bags hiding in the cupboard.

It was going to be a morally tough week. He was not a fan of those.


End file.
